Chapter One

 

“I DON’T WANT TO do this,” Brett muttered.

“Am I supposed to care?” Janet adjusted his necktie, giving it what seemed like a gratuitous tug, as if she wanted to strangle him into silence. “You don’t have a choice, Brett.”

“Who’s the boss here?” he asked.

Her response was a snort. On paper, he was the boss. But in reality, Janet ruled the office with brutal precision. Short and lean, her silver hair brushed straight back from her face and her nose curved like a beak, she reminded him of a hawk—one that wouldn’t hesitate to use her talons if necessary. As an assistant she was invaluable. As a colleague, she was a pain in the ass.

He sighed, not an easy thing to do with the knot of his tie jammed so snugly against his throat. She smoothed the collar of his jacket, then studied his hair with obvious disapproval. “You’ve got to do this. Stockton Financial Services needs a human face in its annual report. You’re human and you’ve got a face. So—as my grandson would say—get over it.”

“Get over what?” he argued. “I pose for a picture every damned year. No law says I’ve got to like it.”

“I know you didn’t like it last year,” Janet conceded. “You weren’t happy with the photographer.”

“He made me look like Mr. Potato-Head’s mutant half-brother.”

“You didn’t look that bad.”

“I looked bad.”

“Well, I hired a different photographer for this year,” Janet told him. “I met her when she arrived, and she seems very nice.”

“Great.” Just what Brett needed: a nice photographer. It didn’t matter how nice she was; he hated posing for photos. They always seemed so…posed. In his high school yearbook photo, he looked as if he were suffering from terminal hay fever. In his college yearbook photo, he looked as if his ailment had descended from his sinuses to his gastrointestinal system; his grimace in the picture could as easily have arisen from acute heartburn as from his discomfort in sitting for a photographic portrait.

And now, as the founder and president of Stockton Financial Services, Brett had to pose for a photograph for the annual report every year. He didn’t need Janet to explain to him that investors felt better when they knew what the man they were entrusting with their money looked like—but for the life of him, he didn’t know how year after year of awkward, self-conscious photos of him in the report could reassure anyone he was worthy of their trust. It was a miracle his clients didn’t take one look at his pained smile and anguished eyes and withdraw every last cent they had invested in his funds.

“You know what I should have done?” he asked as Janet whipped a comb from a pocket in her skirt and started fussing with his hair. “I should have hired a model to stand in for me. Someone rugged and confident.”

“Rare is the male model who looks rugged and confident.” She clicked her tongue, pocketed her comb and turned to inspect his desk. “The folder has to go,” she declared.

“I need that folder. I’m working.” At least, he’d been working until five minutes ago, when Janet had invaded his office to announce that the photographer had arrived and was currently taking pictures of assorted members of the Stockton Financial Services team.

“Your desk should look neat. Clients don’t want to think they’re handing their money over to someone whose desk is messy.”

Brett’s desk was anything but messy. The onyx pen stand, the modern, geometrically shaped lamp, the teak “in” and “out” boxes and sleek computer were arranged with enough flair to resemble a layout from some high-end office-supply catalogue. The open folder was the only indication that someone actually worked at that desk. “Maybe the photo should show me working. That would inspire confidence.”

“I’ve seen you working, and the sight doesn’t inspire confidence. You look like a slob when you work. You’ve always got your sleeves rolled up unevenly and your tie hanging loose and your hair all messy.”

“The work I do is brilliant.”

“I’m not arguing,” Janet said, gliding around his desk and shutting the folder. “But you don’t look like you’re working when you’re working.”

“Okay. I get it. I’m supposed to look nothing like the way I look when I’m actually working, so people who see my photo will think I’m working.”

“Exactly.” She slid the folder into the top drawer of his desk. “Sit,” she ordered him, gesturing toward his chair. “I’ll go find that photographer and tell her you’re ready.”

“I’m not ready,” Brett protested, but Janet ignored him, marching toward the door like a raptor in search of fresh prey. “Tell her I’m in a lousy mood!” he shouted after Janet.

Janet mumbled something unintelligible and probably profane as she disappeared down the hall.

Brett sighed again, then wedged his index finger beneath the knot of his tie and eased it down a couple of centimeters. Maybe if he could be photographed in a sweatshirt and jeans, sitting for a photographer wouldn’t bother him so much.

No. His apparel wasn’t the problem. Posing was. Something about staring into the cyclops lens of a camera unnerved him.

He couldn’t imagine why getting shot—by a camera, for God’s sake, not by a gun—rattled him so much. He ran a successful business, made plenty of money for his clients and himself, lived affluently and didn’t resemble Mr. Potato-Head’s mutant half-brother, except in last year’s annual report. He played cutthroat tennis and dollar-ante poker, went head-to-head with Wall Street nabobs, and strong-armed friends and enemies alike into donating money to his pet causes.

But bring a photographer into the situation and he’d freeze up. His jaw would stiffen, his neck would ache and he’d feel clumsy, at the mercy of someone he didn’t even know. He hated to be at anyone’s mercy.

“He’s in here,” he heard Janet saying, her voice growing louder as she neared his office door. “He’s in a lousy mood.”

Brett swore under his breath. He glanced at the open doorway, then focused on the empty desk in front of him. As much as he hated being at the mercy of others, he also hated being idle. He ought to be reviewing his file on Baro-Tech, Inc., so he could decide whether to invest money from his high-risk fund in the firm. He ought to be doing anything—picking the brains of his managers, checking out the new models on the Porsche web site, playing tic-tac-toe left hand against right—anything other than staring at his work-free desk, braced like a convict about to face a firing squad, about to get shot.

“Right in here,” Janet continued, and he forced himself to rise from his chair and attempt a cordial welcome for the photographer his secretary led into the room. She appeared young, breezy, as relaxed as he was tense. Her smile was so natural he couldn’t help returning it, even though in his case it was more a courtesy than a genuine show of pleasure.

She strode directly over to him, her right hand outstretched and her gaze steady. Straight, dark-blond hair framed the sort of face that could be called handsome: sharp chin, high forehead, long nose and large hazel eyes. She wore khakis, a white silk T-shirt and a lightweight moss-colored blazer that picked up the green in her eyes. In her left hand she gripped the handles of a bulky leather tote bag.

Her camera would be in that tote, he reminded himself, his smile fading.

“Well,” she said cheerfully, “you’re much better looking than I expected.”